Dying Like That Is Stupid
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: It cannot get any worse, John has assumed originally. Lost their suspect, got lost themselves, nothing but cold and snow and trees surrounding them. Well, he is wrong. A so far unpleasant situation suddenly turns into a possibly life-threatening one, and soon John finds himself, together with Lestrade, facing a race against the clock to save his best friend's life. Prompt fill.
1. Lost

_This story was inspired by and created because of a prompt from Catie501 (thank you again!) who requested: avalanche. "Sherlock has followed a killer or something, and they are caught by an avalanche. John & co set out to find him..."_

_My pleasure._

_The most difficult thing, actually, was to maneouvre them into a situation where this could happen, so in this story, the boys are on the hunt - abroad (well, let's say abroad...)._

_I hope you enjoy your reading._

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

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1

Lost

* * *

Of course it had to have happened to them. Of course.

John didn't even curse anymore as he slipped again, catching himself with an outstretched hand on the snowy surface.

"Are you sure we're still walking in the right direction?" he called out, trying to reach Sherlock, already metres ahead.

Greg shot him a look, and John sighed in exasperation. "Sherlock!"

Their friend didn't even bother with turning around.

"Still no signal?" Greg asked him as John pocketed his mobile again.

He curtly shook his head. It couldn't get any worse, he assumed.

They had been following their suspect, their murderer, probably, up to Scotland, had located him in a small village John always forgot the name of - and after they had found the final proof they needed to convict him of double homicide nine years ago and a third one four weeks ago, had intended to confront him. Had intended, because he ran away as soon as he saw them, and of course they had gone after him.

Had found him, had lost him again - and in the end, had got lost themselves. Somewhere in Scotland, on some way uphill, in the middle of the winter, in the snow and in the cold. Without signal on their mobile phones. Really brilliant.

"Sherlock!" John called again, quickening his pace. As much as it was possible on this slippery ground, that was.

Sherlock stopped for a short moment, his coat collar turned up, his cheeks flushed. "What, John!" he demanded, his eyes glistening.

"Do you even know the way?" John wanted to know, sneezing. Jesus, it was cold out here.

Sherlock's eyes darted off into space, his expression became neutral for a moment. "No," he finally admitted. "But going by the course this path is taking and the amount of snow to be found in the trees, the probability that we are walking down to the village is theoretically higher than of us having decided for the wrong way."

John sighed again as Sherlock resumed his former pace, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "At least it's not night yet," he mumbled, but Greg had heard him. "Sherlock will find the way back," he claimed. "Or at least I hope so."

His feet were frozen, John was sure of it as he continued to move his legs and walk. "I could be at home now," he mumbled, "together with Mary, planning our holidays."

"Holidays?" Greg wanted to know, interested.

John curved his lips into a quick smile. "It's our third anniversary this year. Three years since we first met." And one and a half years since Sherlock had come back, he added in his thoughts.

Mary. At home now. But no…

The case had been a private one, originally, a young woman longing for knowledge of who had murdered her two sisters nine years ago. Sherlock had taken it, almost gleefully, and of course John had participated in his investigations. They had had rather many cases since Sherlock's… return, and since Mary never opposed, John enjoyed the thrill, enjoyed returning to what had once been his life. But then, suddenly, this case had become more serious when their client had been murdered, too, bringing Lestrade onto the scene.

Sherlock had quickly found his suspect, but he hadn't had any proof, and when the Yard had declared the third murder to be suicide and not related to the double homicide of nine years ago, they had nonetheless kept investigating, both of them convinced that they were on the right track.

Lestrade had joined them, inofficially, and together they had travelled to Scotland, following their suspect.

Mary had seemed rather relieved to be rid of John for a few days - he knew she had her own ideas for their holidays and didn't, much to John's displeasure - and amusement -, want him to meddle all the time.

And now here he was, lost somewhere in Scotland. And not even Sherlock Holmes seemed to know the way.

"At least you've got something to tell her when we're back," Greg attempted a joke.

Ironically, it hadn't even been their fault. Not even Sherlock's. They just had got… lost, the traces they had left while following the suspect thawed away. Bad luck.

John stopped and sneezed again. "'s not funny, Greg," he mumbled. "We're lost, nobody knows where we went, nobody at home will miss us for at least… two or three days. If we're getting trapped in a snow storm or something and die, nobody will even come looking for us."

Greg chuckled, stopping, too. "I didn't know you had such an optimistic streak," he replied, still grinning. "Come on, John, we'll be fine. Just a little unexpected walk… We've got Sherlock with us, remember? He'll find the way."

"I hope so," John muttered, sighing. "Got no intention of spending the night on this… bloody… mountain."

Greg scanned the sky, scanned their surroundings. "It's still broad daylight, John. And we're just in Scotland, not somewhere in… dunno. Alaska."

John sighed for a second time, narrowing his eyes to get a better look at Sherlock who had crouched down, a few hundred metres ahead already, examining the snow. "What…," he just began, sensing something, when everything happened in split-seconds.

One moment there was movement, quick movement, the other moment Sherlock was back on his feet, another figure behind him, having grabbed him by his throat.

"Greg!" John shouted, about to fall into a sprint.

"Don't move!" the other figure shouted. Their suspect. Their murderer. They had been walking in circles… had they?

"Don't move, or I'll shoot him!"

It was only now that John could see, very clearly all of a sudden, the outline of a weapon pressed to Sherlock's temple. His insides froze.

"Greg…," he forced out.

His original shock lasted only seconds. Seconds until he, all of a sudden, became aware of a deafening noise, like a dozen trains passing by right close to him.

"What the hell…" Greg mumbled next to him, stockstill. Then they saw it. Something white, white and nebulous and huge, rolling down the side of the mountain. Something directly above Sherlock and their suspect…

Avalanche. A bloody avalanche.

John's blood turned into ice as he started running again, no longer caring about the gun, only thinking about snow, snow, snow, started running as if his very life depended on it, only to be held back by Greg: "SHERLOCK! GET AWAY FROM THERE! SHERLOCK!"

The thunderous clangour of the avalanche drowned every single word out, and John was left watching, destined to be too late, watching his best friend who was too far away, out of his reach, but in the reach of the avalanche.

John watched as the masses of snow plunged down the hill, watched as pines and conifers disappeared behind a giant cloud of white, watched Sherlock stand there, motionless, their suspect laughing loudly.

When the sight cleared again, all John could see was white. No trees, not in an area of about hundred feet, nothing, only white. Tons of snow.

And no sign of Sherlock.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_Let me know what you think, please._


	2. Buried

_Wow, thank you all so much for your reviews and your response and following and even favouriting!_

_Before I continue, I wanted to point out that a) I've never been to Scotland, and b) have never witnessed an avalanche or talked to anyone who has. Only online research has provided me with information, and I therefore apologise for any inconsistencies or mistakes you may find. I may stretch reality a bit far in what's to come - don't let it bother you too much - I did so for the story's sake, in the end._

_All rambling aside now, chapter two!_

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

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2

Buried

* * *

John could not breathe.

He stood, in the snow, staring at the exact same spot, and he could not force his lungs to contract.

Avalanche.

Sherlock and their suspect.

Avalanche.

Trees.

Snow.

Avalanche.

Sherlock.

"Sher…," John choked out, still hearing the thunder of the avalanche inside of his head, the avalanche which flattened out a few hundred metres below. "Sherl…" His knees gave way beneath him and he crumbled to the snow, Greg's panting loud in his ears.

No. No. Sherlock was bound to appear right behind him any second, rolling his eyes or smirking, knowing that he was brilliant, that he was the genius, complaining about how slow John always was, how much he cared, how…

No.

It wouldn't happen. It wouldn't… because the avalanche had gone down right where Sherlock had been standing.

"Sherlock," John whispered, still not able to move. "SHERLOCK!"

His own shouting brought him back to reality, made him realise that he was here, not buried beneath tons of snow, that he was here and able to do something.

"Greg," he gasped. "Call… call help."

Greg nodded, his face as pale as the snow surrounding them.

Do something. Do something. He was a doctor, for God's sake, and although this wasn't Afghanistan, it felt like it. It felt worse. Cold. So cold.

"John!" Greg's voice sounded panicked. "Battery's dead on my phone."

John didn't pay attention to him. His legs felt like jelly as he forced himself to stand, to do something. "Have to find him," he mumbled, distantly aware that he sounded like a mad man. "Have to find him, Greg, find him, quickly…"

He didn't move. His legs were running, but the area where the avalanche had… where it had happened didn't come any closer.

While he was running, John's brain went into overdrive. What did he know about avalanches? Nothing, at least next to nothing. Cold, hypothermia, buried beneath so much snow… oxygen… other injuries… oxygen…

Oh God. Oh God no. Not Sherlock. Not…

"Greg," he yelped, coming to an abrupt halt at the edge of the… of the area, a few metres down from where Sherlock and their suspect had been standing. It had stopped, the avalanche, a few hundred metres below, John realised dazedly, but where Sherlock had been, there was… it was… Snow, so much. It had to be crushing him, John thought in horror, crushing, smashing, suffocating… "We have to find him, Greg, we have to find him…"

Greg stopped next to him. "But how?" he mumbled, sounding… shocked.

How. In the tiny corner of his brain that wasn't occupied by the thought of Sherlock, John realised that Greg was right. How? How?

"Dig," he answered, only partly aware of how stupid that sounded. They didn't even have anything to dig with.

Dig with…

Not important. Sherlock.

"John!" Greg's voice reached him once more as he sank down on his knees. "The hut, remember? The hut we passed about twenty minutes ago? Maybe there are shovels there, and…"

Blindly, John started burrowing in the snow, tried to, with his bare hands, not caring about the cold, about how much it hurt, about how difficult it was, how slowly it proceeded. Sherlock. Sherlock.

"Too far away," he panted, freezing for a moment. Where had they been standing, Sherlock and their suspect, where… and where could they be now, buried alive, where…

No shovel. Only their hands. No.

Cold. Snow. Hypothermia. Asphyxiation.

Asphyxiation.

"John…," Greg began again. John didn't look at him, ignored him. Started scratching at the surface again. The hard surface, like ice.

He very nearly vomited at the thought of the force with which the avalanche must have hit Sherlock, at the thought that maybe all their searching was unnecessary because…

When he vomited in fact, he felt Greg's hands on his shoulders, steadying him. "Search," he choked out. "Greg, we have to find him…"

John scrambled to his knees again, continuing his panicked digging. Not digging, not really, he was being far too slow, too ineffective, his movements too uncoordinated…

"Where, John," Greg's voice slowly reached his ears, disrupting his absolute panic for a second.

Where.

"I don't know," John forced out, determined all of a sudden. No, Sherlock, he thought. You're not getting away with that so easily. "Just search. We've got…" Think, John, think. How long? "Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, I think. Sherlock's got fifteen minutes."

* * *

It was pure luck that Greg managed to find a hand about five minutes later, somehow, inexplicably.

A hand. Cold and white as the snow and limp.

"John!" he shouted, his voice erratic.

John immediately rushed towards him, his heart hammering in his chest and pumping even more fear and adrenaline through his veins.

"Here!" Greg told him, trying to remove more snow from around the hand, only a few inches beneath the surface.

It was difficult, moving snow which had turned into something… something deadly, hard as concrete, and unbelievably cold. And yet it worked, had to work, because John would not let Sherlock die.

Together, they made it to the sleeve belonging to the hand - a sleeve in dark green.

Dark green.

Not Sherlock.

Greg shot John a hasty look as John continued excavating the body more quickly, abandoning all care. As soon as he had reached bright hair, blonde and frozen over, and removed the last remnants of snow from the face, John cursed. "Miller," he muttered, his hand, not following his brain's orders, fumbling for the man's neck. Nothing. No pulse. Eyes wide open, staring at him and Greg with an unearthly maniac expression.

"No!" John shouted, letting go of the man and jumping to his feet. "No!"

Greg still sat in the snow. "John…," he began. "We…"

"No!" John only howled again, kicking at the dead man.

"John!" Greg yelled at him. "If we keep searching around him, if we…"

Around him. Useless. If Miller was dead already, then how could Sher-

Suddenly, John noticed what he had failed to observe at first. "Broke his neck," he muttered, more to himself than to Greg. Broke his neck. That meant that… that… he did neither suffocate nor freeze to death. Sherlock. "Greg, hurry up!" he screamed, cursing himself for his slowness. "He's still got a chance!"

A chance. Did he really?

They didn't have the time to think about that now.

"Greg," John interrupted suddenly, another thought occurring to him. "Did you call someone? Help? A helicopter, mountain rescue… or whatever?"

Greg shook his head, his dark eyes huge in his face. "My phone's dead."

"Take mine," John ordered, fumbling around in his pockets. Phone, where was his… Nowhere. No mobile phone. His mobile wasn't here. Lost it… "Damn it!" he shouted out, panic threatening to overwhelm him. Again. "Lost mine." For a moment, he didn't know how to continue, simply took a few deep breaths. Calm, he told himself, he needed to stay calm. "Keep searching!" he then told Greg, falling to his knees again, digging in the ice-cold snow. "Sherlock!" he shouted, knowing that it was useless. "Sherlock! Where are you?"

Miller's gun was, ironically enough, the next thing they found, lying a few metres away from its owner, buried about ten inches deep.

Gun. How futile.

Not gun. Sherlock.

John risked a quick glance at his watch while Greg kept searching. Twelve minutes. How much longer did Sherlock have? If he even was still… What if Miller had managed to shoot him, what if… No.

The seconds rushed past, agonisingly quickly, time running out.

John could no longer feel his fingers, could no longer feel anything except for the cold fear in his heart.

Thirteen minutes.

Beside him, Greg was panting loudly. John crawled forward.

Fifteen minutes.

Miller's body… his corpse. Its upper half uncovered, his legs and right arm still buried beneath the snow.

While John kept staring at his white face, at his eyes with the mad expression in them, he lost it. Completely lost it.

He jumped to his feet, grabbed the man's left shoulder and pulled, simply pulled, not caring about whether he ripped Miller apart. "You bastard!" he yelled at the dead man, distantly aware of what he was doing. "You killed him! You killed him! You…" His voice failed him when he spotted a trace of blue fabric in the middle of the hole from which he had hoisted Miller. Blue fabric.

Scarf. Turning his coat collar up… Scarf.

"Greg," John croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock's scarf.

Sherlock.

Greg was at his side in seconds. "What!" he demanded, panting. "John, what!"

John simply dropped Miller's body, pushed him to the side. Pointed into the hole with one shaking hand.

Greg froze.

John exhaled.

When they both moved again, simultaneously, almost carefully approaching, John suddenly wasn't sure if he wanted to see it. If Sherlock's eyes were as horribly open as Miller's, he might as well lie down here and die.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Any thoughts?_


	3. Found

_Hello again!_

_Thank you very much for more reviews - I love to know what you are thinking. And I am fascinated that you seem to be fascinated!_

_So, third part._

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

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3

Found

* * *

John's hands were trembling madly as they carefully, but quickly shovelled away the snow with their hands, revealing more of the blue fabric.

Sherlock's scarf. Hidden beneath Miller's legs, at least three feet beneath the surface…

"Damn it," John cursed under his breath, his lips quivering. Stupid, they had been so stupid. If they had fully uncovered Miller, they could have found Sherlock earlier, if they had… too late now.

He caught Greg's gaze, caught the fear in his eyes, fear of what they might find, of…

John gritted his teeth and forced himself to stop thinking. It didn't work, of course.

He didn't know if he should be relieved or absolutely terrified when his fingers brushed against another fabric. Coat. Sherlock's coat.

"It's him, isn't it," Greg whispered, stupidly, stating the obvious, appearing as shocked as John felt. He only nodded, continuing to try to remove more snow.

How long had it been? Too long, maybe.

Eighteen minutes.

More fabric. Collar. Sherlock's coat collar. And beneath it… his throat. Carotid artery. Check for pulse.

Pulse.

Greg stopped for a moment, staring at John, biting his lips without even noticing.

John's hand was terribly unsteady as he slowly, almost hesitatingly extended it towards the collar, towards his best friend's neck right beneath.

His cold fingers brushed frozen fabric, carefully moved it away, made their way beneath the scarf… and felt nothing, at first.

At first.

John's breath hitched as he kept his numb finger where they were, feeling something. Something. Or had he imagined it? But no, there was a pulse. Beat. Slow and… too slow, but in that very moment, John couldn't have cared less. "He's alive," he whispered, not able to believe it himself. Alive. Sherlock's heart was beating, and after almost twenty minutes, this had to mean that he was still breathing. Breathing.

Greg remained frozen for a moment before he sprang into action, digging like a machine.

In that moment, John understood. There had to be some kind of… air pocket, some room for him to breathe, and if they…

"Careful!" John yelled at him. "We have to be careful…"

If they destroyed this room free of snow now, they might suffocate Sherlock. Suffocate him now, after he had held on so long. And… if they startled him, hypothermic as he probably was, if they moved him hastily, if they did something careless, his heart might simply stop. Low body core temperature

It took John all of his composure to remain calm, to remain slow, to not start simply pulling at Sherlock's coat and heave him up as he had done it with Miller.

But no, calm. And slow. But not too slow.

And it took even more of his composure to remove his hand from Sherlock's throat, to leave behind the reassurance that his best friend was still alive.

He was lying on his side, John quickly realised when he brushed away the snow from Sherlock's dark curls.

Face. Face now. Important. Breathing. Airway. Asphyxiation.

Although he was careful, utterly careful, his trembling hands didn't manage to excavate Sherlock's head without causing more snow to fall down on him again.

By the time he could see Sherlock's chin and mouth and the tip of his nose and couldn't feel anything when he held two fingers beneath his nose, John panicked.

Ghostly pale skin, deeply blue lips and not breathing. Dead, his brain screamed at John, but he didn't listen. Pulse, there had been a pulse. Minutes ago.

"Sherlock…," he whispered without even realising it as his hands quickly grabbed a fistful of the snow, his only intention to get it away from Sherlock.

His eyes were closed, in contrasts to Miller's, John noticed within a split-second, his eyelids having turned a strange purplish shade.

John's heart was beating wildly in his chest as he pressed two icy fingers against Sherlock's equally icy throat and held the other one beyond his nose. Pulse, yes, but not breathing.

Greg had stilled next to him, watching as John almost hurriedly tilted Sherlock's head to the side, pinched his nose closed and pressed his lips to Sherlock's blue ones. Breath.

"Come on," he mumbled, keeping his fingers on Sherlock's carotid artery. Still there, his heartbeat, although weak. Not breathing.

John bent down again, giving Sherlock another breath. "Come on, Sherlock", he repeated, his own heart hammering loud enough to almost drown out Sherlock's pulse. A third breath. Feeling Sherlock's stiff and frozen lips. Feeling his ice-cold skin.

John waited, waited for five seconds, ten seconds, twenty seconds. Still nothing. Fourth breath.

And finally, finally there was a soft inhale coming from Sherlock, so soft and feeble that John had almost missed it. Almost.

"Oh God," he whispered, slumping all of a sudden. "Oh God…"

Sherlock was alive. Alive.

And still halfway buried beneath a mass of snow, still out in the cold, still barely breathing.

"We have to get him out," John muttered, quietly, but Greg had heard him - and started uncovering Sherlock again.

Had to get him out. While he still attempted to catch his breath, while he still couldn't take his eyes from Sherlock, to watch every single one of his shaky, tiny inhales, he realised the full meaning of what he had said. They had to get Sherlock out of here, out of the cold, to a hospital. As quickly as possible.

Hypothermia. Hypothermia.

Core body temperature… warming…

Desperately, still keeping his fingers on Sherlock's carotid artery, he tried to remember everything he knew about hypothermia. And about treating hypothermia without any equipment.

Concentrate.

For God's sake, he had served in Afghanistan, he knew next to nothing about hypothermia, about cold, about…

Concentrate.

Breathe.

Focus.

Hypothermia.

Prevent further loss of warmth. Different strategies depending on severity of hypothermia. No moving, most likely, in Sherlock's case. Risk of afterdrop, risk of cold blood from the peripheries flowing to his organs, causing further decrease of body core temperature. Keep torso warm. Warm. Take patient to hospital.

Hospital.

John barely managed to remember his professional calmless, and reminding himself of their situation caused his heart to speed up again.

Phone. Sherlock did have a phone.

Hesitatingly crawling away from his head, fumbling around in his coat, he started looking for Sherlock's mobile. And didn't find it, either.

Of course. Stupid. Buried somewhere, probably, further down, slipped out of his coat pocket…

"Greg," he called, gazing at their friend busy removing snow from Sherlock's legs. Only now John realised how twisted his position really was. Broken bones, maybe, the thought ghosted through his head, but even if, that wasn't important right now.

Greg's head shot up, staring at John. "What," he wanted to know, not stopping his almost frantic digging.

"We don't have a phone!" John told him, breathing hard, on his knees next to Sherlock's head once more.

His breathing was uneven, to say the least, and strained, and the way he was lying there, his neck overstretched, his legs spread in an nearly impossible angle…

"Sherlock…," Greg began, but John shook his head. "Can't find it. Must have lost it."

Recovery position. He needed to… to move Sherlock, to…

Carefully, so very carefully despite his trembling hands, John untangled his limbs, turned him onto his right side, rearranged his arms and legs, his head, checked for breathing, for a pulse.

Still alive, still breathing.

For a moment, John felt giddy with a rush of relief.

Only then he noticed that Greg had frozen, his brow furrowed. "We need to get help, don't we?" he voiced slowly, vaguely pointing at Sherlock. "He can't walk, I take it."

Resting two fingers against Sherlock's neck again, John grimly shook his head.

"One of us has to get help," Lestrade concluded.

"Quickly," John added, counting.

"I'll go," Greg decided and got to his feet. "He'll need you more than me."

Need you… Warmth and a hospital, that was what Sherlock needed right now, more than anything else.

John stared at his still face. Had he imagined it or had there been movement, ever so slightly, muscles contracting, convulsing?

John held his breath and bent down.

Only seconds later, there was another shaky inhale, and then Sherlock's shadowed eyes flickered open.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. As always, I am looking forward to feedback._


	4. Decided

Wow, I'm still amazed by the amount of feedback! Thank you all so much!

I do hope you continue to enjoy your reading...

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

4

Decided

* * *

John was sure his heart stopped for a moment.

Within one second, he was directly at Sherlock's side, taking a firm hold of his shoulder. "Don't move," was the first thing he said, his voice hoarse. Only now he noticed the red liquid glittering on Sherlock's forehead. Blood. Blood from a wound to his head, nearly frozen by now.

"Awake?" Greg wanted to know, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

John didn't bother with nodding, addressed Sherlock instead. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes, glazed over, darted around. "J'n?" he mumbled, his speech badly slurred.

John almost started giggling with relief, shooting Greg a quick glance. "Don't move," he repeated, not letting go of both Sherlock's shoulder and his neck. Shivering, Sherlock was shivering, he realised vaguely. "Just lie still."

"Awake?" Greg repeated, urging, gaping at John.

"Yes," John finally answered, never taking his eyes from Sherlock. "Barely, I'd say." In the same moment, Sherlock gave a small moan, and then his eyes fluttered shut again. "No, no, no, Sherlock!" John yelled at him, moving his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to his cheek instead, tracing his thumb over his friend's white skin. "Don't close your eyes, don't!"

Sherlock hissed, weakly tried to lift one hand to his face, and then wrenched his eyes open.

John found himself staring into bright orbs, trying to focus on his face, his own heart hammering fast in his chest. "Good," he whispered despite the lump in his throat. "Just… don't close your eyes, you hear me?"

Awake. Sherlock was awake, alive, breathing, and ice-cold. They needed to get help, to…

Walking. Walking was out of the question for Sherlock. They were able, physically, to carry him, probably, but stirring might trigger afterdrop, and then…

"J'n…," Sherlock slurred, eyelids flickering once more.

"No," John told him, resting his hand on Sherlock's pallid face.

Walking. Moving Sherlock.

It had been too long, John knew in the very same moment, his temperature was too low by now, most likely, they could not move him, should not, could not pick him up and…

Greg had to have seen the desperation in his face because his eyes widened for a split-second, widened before he took a deep breath and interjected: "I'll go. Which way?"

Go. To get help.

Which way, which way, which way…

"Greg…," John began, his attention drawn back to Sherlock as he coughed faintly and then inhaled shakily.

He was sure Lestrade flinched at the sound of coughing.

"We need to get help, right?" Greg wanted to know, running a hand through his hair, not even waiting for a reply. "Which way?"

And still, John hesitated.

"'strade," Sherlock mumbled flatly, his eyes moving sluggishly.

Help. They _did _need help, urgently, and if there was no other way… Because Greg was right. Right.

John decided within split-seconds. "Down there. Where Sherlock assumed the village to be."

Greg nodded, fastening his scarf. "Wanna take my jacket?" he asked, kneeling down next to them.

Jacket, jacket… John shook his head. "Just hurry," he said, taking to slapping Sherlock, carefully, as his eyelids started to droop dangerously.

Hurry.

Greg's face was resembling a frozen grimace.

Hurry.

John of course realised what he had implied with this word. Not much time.

"DI, remember? Police. Bound to be quick," Lestrade answered, trying to sound casual. And failing. "I'll be back. Hold on."

"J'n…," Sherlock whispered, weakly trying to lift his head.

"No, don't!" John told him, restraining him. "Don't move."

"I'll hurry," Greg promised again, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a moment and then, hesitantly, got to his feet, turned his back towards them, rushing down the slope.

John didn't watch until he had disappeared, but now focused entirely on Sherlock, lying in the snow, frighteningly limp and colourless, except for the red, for the blood.

Disappeared. Until Greg had disappeared. If he had taken the wrong way, if it was too far, if he didn't find help… it would be too late, John was fully aware of. For Sherlock, and if it took too long, for him, too.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he muttered while cupping Sherlock's icy cheek again. "Don't close your eyes," he snapped, still awkwardly kneeling beside his best friend's head. For a moment, he thought about pulling Sherlock into his arms, but decided against it. Moving… No. He didn't _know _how much Sherlock's temperature had dropped already, didn't know if the simple act of pulling him up was dangerous, didn't know… but it was too risky, far too risky. Instead, he got rid off his jacket, spreading it over Sherlock's chest and torso.

"Stay with me, Sherlock," he begged, grabbing one of his hands lying in the snow, resting the other one on Sherlock's throat once more. Too slow, still, his heartbeat. "Don't go to sleep."

"J'n," Sherlock repeated, blinking slowly. "'s cold… where's Lestr…"

"He's gone to get help," he told his best friend, feeling the cold pull at his back, without the jacket. "He'll be back soon, but you have to hold on until then, OK? OK? Talk to me, Sherlock."

"Mh," Sherlock replied. John's heart clenched in fear as he watched his blue lips quiver. "Where'r'we?"

Talking. Talking was good. John could barely resist the urge to rub Sherlock's stiff fingers, although he knew that it would be wrong in their situation, would be wrong at this stage of hypothermia. At the stage he assumed Sherlock to be. Moderate hypothermia, probably, at least, or maybe even… John simply did not know.

"We've been following a suspect, remember?" he choked out, suddenly remembering the moment when the avalanche had come down, had buried both Sherlock and Miller.

"Sus…," Sherlock began, his eyelids flickering. "C…case… you… L l… lestr… we w… were following… wha'happen'd?"

Best not to answer, John decided. Not now. Had to talk about something else. "Does anything hurt?" he asked instead, counting each heartbeat.

Sherlock seemed to frown, or tried to, his facial muscles not obeying. "No…," he muttered. "'m fine…"

No. Not hurting… No. In this case, John wasn't even sure if 'no' was a good answer.

Alarmed all of sudden, afraid of a spinal injury, of nerve damage, John decided to change his tactic. "Can you feel your legs?" he wanted to know.

"L.. l… llegs…," Sherlock repeated, his eyes flickering in and out of focus. Concussion, maybe. For a split-second, John wondered what he could possibly have hit except for snow, but then deemed the thought unimportant. "C…ccan… legs," Sherlock went on, his teeth chattering. "John…s… snow… w… what…"

Again, John decided to ignore him. "What about your hands? Can you feel that?" Squeezing Sherlock's limp hand, John anxiously waited for an answer.

"Hurts," was what he got to hear. "C…cold… w…where's Les…"

Sherlock's head lolled forward all of a sudden, and his eyes closed.

"No, no, no!" John called, slapping his best friend again. "Wake up, Sherlock, come on, you have to wake up!"

Slowly, very slowy, his eyelids started to tremble once more, revealing blue and dazed irides. "John," he mumbled. "'s c… cold."

Trying to hide his utter desperation, John nodded. "I know, Sherlock, I know. Greg's on his way to get help, but you have to hold on, alright? Just hold on."

"John…," Sherlock repeated again, unintelligibly.

Squeezing his best friend's icy hand and at the same time still measuring his pulse, John hoped with all his heart that Greg would find someone - and that they would be quick.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._


	5. Frozen

_Once more, thank you all so much. You keep me motivated to continue - and I'm so terribly sorry that you never receive any more appreciation than these few words every chapter._

_Now, enjoy._

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

5

Frozen

* * *

Sherlock was shivering in the snow, shivering miserably, and John sat next to him and watched. And did nothing.

Did nothing because he did not know what to do.

A few minutes, that was as far as he got.

Until he could no longer stand, could no longer bear the mere sight of Sherlock, pallid, with blue lips, his hair frozen over, lying in recovery position in the snow, in the hole John and Greg had produced, only covered with his icy coat and John's too small jacket.

His lips were still trembling as John carefully manoeuvred himself behind Sherlock's back, even more carefully lifting his head a little and resting it on his lap.

"Alright?" he asked quietly.

"Perf… ectly…," Sherlock muttered through chattering teeth. "C…c…cold…"

Sucking in a deep breath, doing his best not to think about what might soon happen to Sherlock, John attempted to reassure him: "I know. Help's on the way. Just a little bit longer."

"Li'l… b…bit," Sherlock slurred, breathing flatly. "So… c…cold… J…John."

"I know," John whispered, the lump in his throat attempting to suffocate him. "You'll be fine, you'll… don't worry. Just keep talking to me, alright?"

To see the air clouding in front of Sherlock's face, to witness his exhale and to feel his halting inhale resonating in his body was a reassurance, a tiny one. And a reminder, of what was to come.

There were things he was supposed to do, things that helped with hypothermia. Things to treat hypothermia. Unfortunately, only very few of these things came to his mind, and of those none was possible now.

Remove wet and cold clothes. Not a good idea. Warm fluids. Not available. Find shelter, out of cold environment. Not possible either. He didn't even have something he could have wrapped Sherlock into, nothing except for his jacket.

Softly stroking Sherlock's face and tracing the frozen blood on his forehead, he shook his head again, feeling as if he was about to fall apart.

His best friend was… was… maybe _dying _in his arms, and there was not a single thing he could do about it. He couldn't even lift Sherlock and run after Greg, couldn't risk any harsh movement, couldn't risk cardiac arrhythmia.

Wait… Miller.

Trying to lock his gaze with Sherlock's, he softly rested his friend's head back in the snow. "Don't fall asleep," he told Sherlock. "Don't even think about it. I'll be back any second."

"W…wh…," Sherlock attempted to whisper, but for once, John didn't listen. It didn't feel right to let go of Sherlock, didn't feel right to remove his hand from Sherlock's neck.

Miller. Had to get to Miller.

Hurriedly, almost brutally, as quickly as possible, John tore the man out of his jacket, ripped off his cap and the jumper he was wearing.

Within seconds, he was back at Sherlock's side, only to find his eyes half-closed. "Sherlock," he addressed him while spreading Miller's thick jacket over his torso, additional to his own.

A few moments passed. "J'n," Sherlock then slurred feebly. "W…where…"

Carefully, as if not to break something, John lifted Sherlock's head back to his lap, shoving the cap over his frozen curls.

Hesitating for a second, every fibre of his being screaming at him to do differently, he flung Miller's pullover around his own shoulders, knowing that it would do Sherlock no good if he himself collapsed because of hypothermia, but at the same time ready to take it away any moment and cover Sherlock with it, too.

"Talk to me," he urged, staring at Sherlock's normally dark eyelashes for a moment. Normally dark, because they were frozen over now, too, glittering in his chalky face.

"W… why're… h… here," Sherlock managed. "Ww… wha's… wrong…"

Once more, he attempted to turn his head, but John restrained him gently, resting his hand on the white cheek.

"S… s… snow," Sherlock whispered, almost too quietly for John to understand. "C… cold… 'strade… he… help, you s… said?"

John's heart nearly stopped when Sherlock's breath hitched for a moment, his head heavy in John's lap.

"D…d'you n… need help," Sherlock murmured. "You… h… hurt…"

Slowly, John moved one of his hands back to Sherlock's throat, the fingers of the other one still clenching Sherlock's. "It's fine," he said softly, suppressing the urge to sneeze.

One, two, three, four… "You'll be alright," he repeated, mindlessly, aware how stupid it sounded, aware that, in the end, it were hollow words.

"Mh," Sherlock made, more an exhale than a word. "J… John… you… al… r… right?" he forced out, his fingers in John's grip convulsing.

His heart clenched. "I'm fine," he whispered. "I'm fine, don't worry."

Sherlock's breath hitched again, a tiny bit. "G… good…," he murmured, his eyelids fluttering once more. "We… in t… trouble… 's it… b… bad?" he wanted to know, shakily, trying to raise his clouded gaze towards John's face.

"No," John lied.

Sherlock didn't protest.

When he tried and failed to detect a pulse in Sherlock's wrist, in contrast to the still existent thump in his neck, John gritted his teeth, desperately trying not to think about the moment when there would be no pulse in his carotid artery either.

No. Not good. A bit not good.

Holding on. Sherlock simply had to hold on.

"You're doing fine," he told his best friend, soothingly stroking his cheek with his own numb hand.

Numb. And cold.

What if he lost all feeling in his fingers and would no longer be able to judge if Sherlock's heart was still beating or not?

"Fine," he repeated, maybe to reassure himself.

Sherlock gave a faint cough and moaned. "'m… not," he mumbled, barely audible for John. "L… l… lost, are… we," he added, coughing again.

John pressed his eyes shut for a moment. "Greg's getting help," he said, squeezing Sherlock's stiff hand.

Sherlock groaned, his fingers twitching. "You… you… sh…sh…should go," he stammered in the next moment, weakly attempting to turn his head.

Should go. At first, John didn't understand, only restrained Sherlock's head, kept him from moving. "What?" he replied, confused. God, it was cold, so cold. If even he felt frozen, he didn't even want to think about how it had to appear to Sherlock.

"G…g… go," Sherlock managed. "H… help. J… John… you… safe."

Bending down over Sherlock, both to attempt to escape the cold and to scold Sherlock, he shook his head firmly. "I'm not leaving you," he stated.

Sherlock's purplish eyelids flickered shut. "Save… you…," he mumbled, a shaky exhale clouding the air directly in front of him for a second. "P…please…"

His trembling became weaker, despite the additional jacket and the cap, John noticed with horror. Ceasing of shivering meant… meant… bordering on severe hypothermia. Not good. Hurry up, Greg, he begged inwardly. "I'm not leaving you," he repeated.

"Sh… sh… should," Sherlock tried again, a trembling but yet prone form in the snow.

"No," John simply replied, risking a glance at his watch. When had Lestrade left? Ten minutes ago, fifteen? How much time had passed, and how much time would still have to pass until someone might arrive to help Sherlock, to get him to hospital?

John was still counting. Too slow, he realised somewhat belatedly, Sherlock's heart was beating too slowly. Even more slowly, probably.

"J… John," Sherlock stammered breathlessly. "S…s… sorry…"

"No," John croaked. "No, don't…" Determined all of a sudden, he almost viciously rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's cheek. "No, Sherlock, no. Tell me about the case," he demanded, trying hard not to shiver himself.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered weakly. "W… why," he forced out, his lips appearing stiff. Stiff. Frozen.

For a moment, John could only hear his own fast breathing. He was not prone to panicking, not normally, but right now… He's not going to survive that!, a voice in his head screamed at him. He's dying, and you can't help him!

"Need to know you're still conscious," he choked out, still pressing his hand against Sherlock's cheek.

"'m…m…," Sherlock muttered weakly, John needing seconds to understand what he meant: I am. Still conscious, then.

"Talk to me, Sherlock, please," he took to begging. How long had it been? Half an hour until they had finally found Sherlock, and now… fifteen minutes, at least. How fast did the human body lose warmth… John didn't know where the facts in his head suddenly came from, didn't know if he simply made them up or if he rembered them, in fact, if he had found them suddenly, somwhere in his mind as Sherlock used to recall things. Three degrees per hour inside an avalanche, six degrees per hour outside.

Half an hour inside… About a quarter of an hour outside… loss of… four degrees in total. At minimum.

And when he took into consideration that Sherlock had been on the case for days, had probably eaten next to nothing, it only worsened his calculation.

Only now he realised that Sherlock hadn't responded to what he had said.

Shock and the cold froze him so much that John barely managed to start cupping the white cheek. "Sherlock…," he whispered, his voice failing. "Wake up. Open your eyes. Please."

It almost hurt him physically to slap his best friend, after all that had happened today. No. No. Unconscious, so soon. Not a good sign. Not…

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered again. "Shn," he slurred, inhaling feebly.

John's heart missed a beat. "I'm here," he stammered, bending down to Sherlock again. "You're doing fine, really. Just… don't go to sleep. Sherlock, please. Stay awake."

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_As you know, I'm always looking forward to feedback._


	6. Slowed

_Thank you... once more. Really. Feedback does tend to make my day!_

_So, next part._

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

6

Slowed

* * *

Minutes passed in which Sherlock's eyes were half-open, staring dazedly into the distance, minutes in which his eyelids were in danger of drooping ever so often.

Minutes in which John, desperately searching his brain for something he could do, had started to exhale directly in front of Sherlock's nose whenever his best friend inhaled, to provide him with warm air to breathe in, not the icy one surrounding them.

Sherlock flinched a tiny bit at the first time, blinking lazily, his eyes attempting - and failing - to focus on John. "Shn…," he mumbled. "G… go…"

John didn't, of course.

Instead, he stooped down to Sherlock, tried to protect him from the cold attacking him, from the icy wind, from the snow that had started to fall ever so slightly, tried to lock his eyes with Sherlock's, to force him to stay awake, to stay alive, to give him something to hold on to.

And he breathed out, slowly, every time Sherlock drew breath, slowly and evenly, waiting, praying, for another inhale.

John kept talking to him when he was not concentrating on exhaling, all the time, his voice trembling and his teeth chattering by now, but he didn't stop, didn't even stop stroking his cheek or pressing his fingers to Sherlock's throat.

Slow, so slow, his heartbeat. Much too slow.

Sherlock always was a whirl of energy, of activity, of life, never slow, always blurring and fascinating and quick and fast and breathtaking, always, so this felt… so wrong, so very wrong. Because Sherlock wasn't supposed to be slow, not supposed to slow down. Never.

But he was, John had to face, his eyes burning, his limbs numb and, worst of all, his heart aching as he continued rambling.

Sherlock was no longer reacting properly to what John was saying, making noises now and then, involuntarily, probably, maybe, once even slurring "Shn", but… but terribly apathetic.

Apathetic. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be apathetic, either.

Warmth, warmth, warmth was all John could think of.

"Don't give up," he told Sherlock quietly, for once managing a sentence without stuttering, and pulled his jacket up to Sherlock's neck, Miller's still covering his torso, and turned his coat collar up as far as possible, fastening the scarf. Removed the jumper from his own shoulders, wrapped it around Sherlock's neck, too. Protect head and neck.

Treat victim with moist and warm air. Air.

Softly, very softly, despite his shaking hands, John turned Sherlock's limp and heavy head a tiny bit, to be able to reach his face and nose better, waited for another one of his shaky inhales.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally.

As Sherlock drew breath, ever so slowly and feebly, John exhaled again, blowing warm air into his face.

Sherlock had stopped shivering by now, had stopped moving at all, in fact, had stopped responding.

Feeling his weak and unsteady and so slow heartbeat beneath his numb fingers, John didn't dare to slap him anymore, didn't dare to do anything to shock him, to startle him, anything that might cause his heart to stop or to go into ventricular fibrillation.

Another inhale. John exhaled, the tip of his nose touching Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes didn't flicker, he didn't react to the contact of John's skin to his anymore.

He just stared, blankly, his face an odd mixture of colours. White and grey on his skin, red on his forehead, blue on his lips, a soft shade of purple on the tip of his nose, his black hair littered with white snowflakes.

Biting his lips, John brushed them off Sherlock's face with one trembling hand. "No, n… no… nn… no," he mumbled, not even really listening. No snow on Sherlock. No. It wasn't… it wasn't right. John attempted, and failed, to stifle a violent tremor running through his entire body.

Just a little bit longer.

He didn't have the courage to take a look at his watch. They hadn't been here for long, most likely not long enough for Greg to have reached help, and for help to be on the way back to them already.

Most likely not. And yet, there wasn't much time left, time was… running out. Sherlock's time.

"Sh… Sherlock," John whispered, his teeth chattering, in contrast to Sherlock's, lying perfectly still. "C…come on!"

Another exhale on his face caused Sherlock's eyes to flutter once more, in danger of closing.

"N… no," John forced out, his breathing coming in short gasps. "D… don't d…d… do this t… to me, Sherlock…"

Please, he added in his mind, without stumbling over the words. Please, don't. Hold on, just hold on, for a bit longer.

Please.

Sherlock's pupils were dilated, huge and black and dark in his snow-white face, staring at John, staring right through him. Appearing vacant.

And yet, Sherlock was still there. His lips moved faintly, being too stiff by now to produce proper syllables, but John could hear him. "'hn," he tried to mumble. "Alri…"

Alright.

Tears stinging in his eyes, John concentrated on exhaling as he pressed his fingers to his best friend's throat more firmly.

* * *

John didn't know how long he was sitting there, in the snow, in the cold, Sherlock's head on his lap, his eyes closed in the meantime, unconscious, and breathed into Sherlock's face whenever he inhaled, trying to provide him with a tiny bit of warmth. With as much warmth as possible in their situation, this little gestures being everything John could do.

He didn't know how long he kept his fingers, slowly turning blue, pressed to Sherlock's neck, desperately waiting for each new heartbeat which had become even slower, so much slower that John always wondered if there would be another one.

And breathing… Four breaths per minute, John had counted. Everything in him shouted to start CPR, to breathe for Sherlock, to help him, to take away this task from his failing body… but he didn't. Because, although hypothermic, although appearing terribly lifeless, Sherlock was still alive. Still alive. And pressing down on his chest and compromising his still working heart would do nothing than stop it altogether.

So John simply sat there, exhaled when Sherlock inhaled, counted every single one of his heartbeats, and waited.

For what, he didn't know.

It had been forty-five minutes, at least, since Greg had left them, and he still wasn't back.

Who knew, maybe he was lost, or buried, or on the wrong way, and no-one would ever find them, only their frozen bodies, one's head resting on the other one's lap, their hands entwined.

John didn't know, and maybe, just maybe, he didn't even want to. He simply clung to Sherlock.

And continued to wait. For help or death.

* * *

_The situation's looking rather grim, isn't it? I hope I didn't frighten you too much._

_Nonetheless, __thank you for reading._


	7. Determined

_Thank you. Once more._

_I apologise for any spelling mistakes - which are likely to be there -, I am tired and in a bit of a hurry, and I didn't want to leave you waiting any longer._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

7

Determined

* * *

Greg couldn't remember when he had run such a long distance for the last time. Or when he had last run on such a slippery surface.

He didn't permit himself to think about it.

John needed his help, Sherlock needed help. He had to find someone, someone with a mobile, and then, he had to call an ambulance or whatever or whoever was in duty in such a situation.

And he didn't even know if he was running in the right direction, was simply following Sherlock's assumptions who could as well be…

John was a doctor, he told himself, a good one, and even if he had seemed absolutely terrified by what had happened, Greg tried to believe that John would manage. Surely he would.

For God's sake, probably the two of them were back at their hotel before he had even reached the bloody village.

Of course he knew they wouldn't.

Truth to be told, he didn't even know how exactly he had ended up here. Well, but then, if he hadn't insisted on following Sherlock and John, investigating in a case the Yard had declared to be suicide, John wouldn't have had any possibility to get help now. He couldn't - and wouldn't, Greg assumed - leave Sherlock, and Sherlock, as John had told him, couldn't walk.

He was their only chance.

It did sound overly dramatic, and he almost would have chuckled at the thought of that - until he realised it was true.

The sudden fear he felt made him speed up, made him stumble, but he simply ran on. For God's sake, he was a DI, he had known Sherlock for years… and he would be damned if he let him di- … down now.

Cursing the fact that he rather preferred lazy evenings in front of the telly or in a pub instead of doing some work-out, Greg tried to hurry up.

* * *

John was distantly aware of his own shivering, of how cold he was, of how everything hurt. Distantly.

Because it didn't matter. He was fine, really fine, in contrast to Sherlock.

How long, how long, how long…

Breath. John exhaled, forcing his trembling lips to blow out air.

It was difficult, so difficult by now to feel Sherlock's faint pulse with his frozen fingers, to detect the shallow thump, occurring… twenty-six times in one minute. And it felt weaker with each passing beat.

As he exhaled again, bending down to Sherlock's grey face, John pressed his eyes shut. "C…c… come on," he mumbled, desperately stroking his best friend's stiff cheek. "J…jus' a… l… lil'… b…bit longer…"

Please, Sherlock, he added inside of his head, renewing his grip on Sherlock's neck.

Just a little bit longer.

* * *

Lestrade couldn't remember how much time had passed since he had been able to get oxygen into his lungs. A long time, probably.

And he was still outside, still somewhere on that mountain or hill or whatever, still not having found help.

Thirty minutes, he assumed, at least, while he stopped for a short moment, gasping and trying to orientate himself.

Futile.

Down. Down. Always downhill. Probably the best option.

Why was nobody here? It wasn't night yet, weren't there supposed to be people going skiing or doing… whatever one did up here in Scotland, in the winter, on a mountain.

Nobody, not a single soul.

"Damn it," he cursed and forced his legs to move.

* * *

John didn't know how he should survive this. Not the cold, no. He didn't know how he should survive losing Sherlock. Being a doctor, being there, with his best friend, but unable to do anything.

He knew he was thinking nonsense, knew that the cold was affecting him, but it didn't matter.

He very nearly missed Sherlock's inhale, slow and soft, very nearly failed to exhale at the same time. How many had it been? John didn't remember, didn't even want to know. Three breaths per minute? And twenty heartbeats?

The longer he kept staring at Sherlock, white and red and blue, flecked with snowflakes not melting away, the more his throat narrowed, the more he felt inclined to believe that his best friend was dead.

"No," he forced out, one coherent word without shivering. "Y… you're n…not gi… ving up," he demanded, doing his best to shield Sherlock from the icy wind.

Beat. Hanging on.

But not for long, John feared.

* * *

At first Greg thought it to be a hallucination when he heard people shouting, people talking. He couldn't see anyone, not at first, but when he rounded the next slope… There were people. People. And helicopters.

Greg couldn't believe his luck.

"Help!" he croaked hoarsely with his throat too dry and too narrow to shout properly. "Help, I need help!"

Many people, people appearing rather… professional, was all Greg could think about. In proper clothes for this temperature, with sticks in their hands, and shovels… Searching, he finally realised, for avalanche victims.

For a moment, he wondered if he had been walking in circles, if those people were looking for Sherlock and John.

Of course not.

"Help!" he yelled again, and finally, heads were being turned towards him.

"What's happened?" one of them asked, his voice appearing blurry in Lestrade's ears. Because of the cold, he realised.

Breathless, panting, he nonetheless tried to force out words: "There are… two… men… up the hill… avalanche… help!"

Another avalanche, another one, both where they had been and here, further away, downhill… victims.

The man in front of him stared at him rather quizzically. All of a sudden Greg understood why Sherlock always called people stupid, imbecile. "Oh, for God's sake!" he shouted. "Give me a mobile or a bloody phone and let me call an ambulance and a helicopter! They need help, now, immediately, don't you understand?"

For a few moments, everyone around him seemed completely fazed. Greg's own panting was the only thing he could hear.

"Alright," someone finally said. "Where?"

* * *

John waited. And waited. And waited.

Five seconds.

Eight seconds.

Ten seconds.

Twelve seconds.

Fif…

Finally. He let out the breath he had been holding, relief crashing through him until he started waiting again, waiting for the next heartbeat.

So slow, so slow, and faint…

John didn't have a thermometer, didn't have any possibility to find out how much Sherlock's temperature had dropped. Below thirty degrees, probably.

Exhaling next to Sherlock's nose again, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Wasn't sure if he wanted to give up on the last remnants of his hope.

* * *

Greg could only watch as one of the helicopters, armed with medical equipment, paramedics and a doctor, set off, having himself been seated in another one, together with a ridiculous orange blanket and a cup of hot, sweet tea, one paramedic fussing about him.

The orange blanket.

He had insisted on coming with them, of course, had insisted to see if Sherlock was…

"You are hypothermic," someone had told him, not listening to his protests and instead leading him to the helicopter. "You are going nowhere."

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade…," he had begun, but had realised that it was futile.

And had given in.

He had found somebody. He had done what he had been supposed to do.

The only question was whether it had been enough. Whether it had been in time. Or whether it was too late already to save Sherlock.

Closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of the tea, Greg Lestrade suddenly felt like crying.

* * *

John's determination grew along with his desperation.

How long had it been that Sherlock had lost consciousness? He didn't remember.

There still was a faint thump, occurring seldomly enough for John to almost miss it.

It couldn't be long until Sherlock's heart simply stopped.

And yet, at the same time, John was not willing to give up now. Not now.

He wasn't talking to Sherlock anymore, needing all of his concentration to time his exhales and all of his focus to feel the pulse in his frozen fingers.

He didn't start crying although his eyes were burning, although they were watering already. He didn't cry, didn't because there was still hope. Just a few minutes longer, and maybe help would be here… Sherlock would hold on, he determined while stroking his grey cheeks, icy and rigid to the touch.

"C… come on, y… you… idiot," he forced out. "D…dying lllike that's… s…stupid. Y…you w…w… wouldn't w…want that, w…would you?"

Sherlock's heart did not stop beating.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_I will try to hurry up, I promise._


	8. Stopped

_Thank you so much._

_We're getting there, I promise. I do._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

8

Stopped

* * *

When John's ears caught the first impression of the sound of an helicopter, he didn't know if he should trust them.

Helicopter. Help. Hospital.

He drew in a shaky, almost panicked wheeze, his eyes started scanning the grey sky with the soft snowfall, searching for anything, anything at all, and when the noise became more prominent and John finally spotted a flying object indeed, he forgot about the cold and his panic and his desperation for a moment and felt utter _relief_. Relief that they had made it, that Sherlock was alive, that he would be alright.

Relief for one second.

Until realisation hit him that there now were entirely different tasks to master, transporting Sherlock to a hospital, warming him up, treating possible side-effects of the hypothermia, frostbite, keeping him alive…

And that it would still take a few minutes until help was be here, until… and John was not sure, absolutely not, if Sherlock would hold on that long.

"A…a…alright," he attempted to tell Sherlock, his teeth still chattering. "J… just a.. f…few minutes now."

* * *

John stopped feeling anything before the first person came running towards him. Stopped feeling the faint thump beneath his fingertips, stopped feeling the cold.

He couldn't think straight.

His fingers were blue, yes, and frozen and numb and the fact that he couldn't feel anything… could mean anything. Anything.

But could not mean that Sherlock was… that he…

The world started spinning around John and he heard himself gasping for breath, helpless, frightened, terrified.

"Sh… Sh… Sherl…," he began and realised that he could not finish, could not even pronounce his best friend's name anymore.

He looked dead, so dead, but this didn't have to mean that…

John closed his eyes as he realised that there was no way he, no matter what, could start CPR now. He was stiff and frozen, couldn't move, couldn't…

Had to, had to check, had to… Mobilising the last bits of his strength, he attempted to crawl backwards, to get to his knees, to check on Sherlock…

Sherlock's head fell back into the snow, gracelessly, and John slumped over next to him, all of his limbs feeling heavy and… dead.

"N… nn… no…," he croaked feebly, doing his best to raise his head, keep his eyes open, to look at Sherlock. If he wasn't…

Once more, it took him too long to understand what was happening when there were feet in front of him, feet in boots and…

Finally.

"Help, he needs help," was all John could choke out, without stammering this time, blinking heavily.

His sight was blurring nonetheless, because of tears or because of the cold, and he could barely take in the sight of one man getting to his knees, reaching out for Sherlock's throat, covered by his scarf, his coat collar, John's jacket.

Reaching out to check for a pulse.

"A…alive," John stuttered while another one of the men started talking to him, saying words he couldn't understand and which were not important anyways. Not important at all.

"He's a… alive…," he repeated weakly, his right arm, reaching for Sherlock, flopped uselessly. Or had been, rather, had been alive, he corrected himself, not finding the strength to voice the words.

Finally, his hand had found fabric, Sherlock's coat, and he clung to it, despite the pain, despite the numbness.

Paramedics, what, what were they doing, what…

It took John seconds to realise that one of them was addressing him: "…have to move him. Sir, you need to let go…"

Let go.

"N… no…," John mumbled weakly, his heart pumping wildly in his chest all of a sudden, shoving his body up until he was sitting, hunched over, breathing shallowly.

The man with his hand on Sherlock's neck shook his head.

Shook his head.

All of a sudden, John found himself unable to breathe, unable to hear anything, to see anything else except for Sherlock's face, the skin turning blue because of the cold.

"…there was… he had… he was… pulse… minutes… ago…," he slurred incoherently, not resisting as someone determinedly tore his hand away from Sherlock's coat and started talking to him again.

John did not listen.

All he could see were two men turning Sherlock around until he was on his back, one of them putting a mask on his face, hooked up to something, to a machine warming the air he was provided with, the oxygen forced into his lungs by the paramedic squeezing the bag in a slow rhythm, the other one… the other one starting chest compressions.

* * *

John did not really know how he ended up inside of the helicopter, squeezed into some corner, a thermal blanket around his shoulders, one man crouching in front of him, setting up an IV line.

"'m fine," he mumbled, tried to convince the man. "'m fine, lemme go…"

Desperately, he craned his neck, to get a look at Sherlock, to see what the paramedics were doing, if…

Vaguely, very vaguely, he remembered a stretcher, Sherlock on the stretcher, without the additional layers of clothes that might have provided a tiny bit of warmth, two men carrying it to the helicopter, almost hurriedly… and he had lurched after it, stumbled uncontrollably, the muscles in his legs cramping and hurting and not obeying his command, everything whirling and spinning around him, the only thought on his mind being Sherlock.

"You need to calm down," the man in front of him addressed him.

Calm. John ignored him, slipping to the edge of his seat.

Sherlock.

One man was still giving chest compressions, he noticed, a wave of nausea hitting him all of a sudden, and the other one… was fiddling with paddles, with…

John watched, frozen, not daring to draw breath, not daring to move as they stopped, attempted defibrillation, as Sherlock's body, his clothes cut open by now, jerked, watched as one of the men felt for his carotid artery again, shook his head once more.

Hypothermia, John's mind screamed at him, hypothermia, hypothermia, the hypothermic heart is not likely to respond to defibrillation…

Three attempts, three headshakes.

The men resumed resuscitation, resumed it because defibrillation had been unsuccessful. Three times.

The hypethermic heart is unlikely to respond to…

The paramedic tending to him was saying something, John realised dazedly, but he couldn't follow. "Where's Greg…," he mumbled, uttering the first thing that came to his mind, aware that he was making only little sense.

The man kept rambling, attempting to put an oxygen mask to John's face which John shoved away with weak arms, only ever fixed on Sherlock.

Not now, he could only think, not now, Sherlock, don't be stupid…

Cardiac arrest. After having survived so long, outside, so long, after… John swallowed thickly, nausea welling up inside him.

Resuscitation. Transport to hospital.

Because there still was a chance. A chance.

"I need to get to him…," he slurred, ripping out the needle in the back of his hand, attempting to get to his feet, to hurry to Sherlock's side. Collapsed, instead, almost on the floor, clinging to the wall to prevent himself from falling. "Please…"

"…need to sit down… calm… help…," the paramedic's voice slowly reached his ears.

"Sherlock…," he could only whisper, allowed himself to be shoved down to the seat again, slumping back, allowed the thermal blanket to reappear.

Frozen, damned to watch, unable to do anything, he just sat there, sat and stared at Sherlock's right hand, hanging limply over the edge of the stretcher, at those foreign people performing CPR on his best friend, giving rescue breaths to him, pushing down on him, crushing him, trying to keep him alive.

John's head was swimming and spinning as he watched, terrified, frozen, his eyes watering, his nose runny after two minutes, and they still continued.

Continued.

Because Sherlock was dead, technically, had not responded to defibrillation, did not have a pulse, was not breathing - and yet still had a chance. A chance to come back.

Involuntarily, John shivered, pressing his eyes closed for a second.

"No…," he muttered again, tears stinging in his eyes. "Please…"

_If you were dying, in your last moments, what would you say?_

_Please, God, let me live._

_Oh, use your imagination._

_I don't have to._

If your best friend was dying, right next to you, and you were unable to help, what would you say?

John's throat constricted as the words swirled through his head.

No, Sherlock, he only thought again. Don't do this. Just… no.

* * *

Sherlock didn't, in the end.

John couldn't remember how exactly he had survided those minutes, those eternal minutes, when paramedics had worked to stimulate his best friend's heart to beat again, but… they stopped, eventually, and after a few horrible seconds, John had realised that they had stopped because they did have a pulse, not because they had given up on Sherlock.

He had felt so light-headed for a moment, so absolutely light-headed, that he had found himself sagged against the wall, an oxygen mask on his face, supplying him with sticky and steamy and warmed air and heating pads pressed to his neck and groin.

Had felt exhausted, utterly, _utterly _relieved, and was sobbing, choked sounds inside of the mask.

Until realisation hit him once more that nothing was won yet, that they still had to get him to a hospital, stabilised, transported, riskily. Quickly, and yet carefully, to warm him up, to tend to him, to…

Breathing shallowly, blinking rapidly, John forced himself to his feet, ignoring the protests of the man supposed to take care of him, forced his body to stand because he simply had to take a look at Sherlock, had to make sure…

"Oh, Sherlock…," his whispered into his mask, his knees wobbly beneath him, staring down at Sherlock's too pale, blueish face, at his white chest, speckled with electrodes measuring his heart rate and producing a slow, still so very slow, and irregular beeping, at the tip of his nose, or where his nose was supposed to be, beneath the mask covering the lower half of his face, the mask still required to make him breathe, at the drip, hanging from the ceiling, the line leading downwards, to Sherlock's hand, providing him with warmed fluids.

"You _need _to sit down," he was told once more, and this time, John didn't oppose as he was pushed down again, the blanket draped over his shoulders more neatly.

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, simply concentrating on the beeping, concentrating on the knowledge that Sherlock's heart had started beating again, doing its job, that he had got his best friend back.

For now.

* * *

John had experienced many flights in helicopters in his life.

This was, by far, the worst one.

The beeping from the heart monitor was still so very slow, so very weak that John feared any moment it would fade again.

It did not, Sherlock held on, held on long enough, far from stable, though, until they finally landed on the rooftop of some hospital.

John of course had to stay behind as two of the three men sprinted away, pushing the stretcher and Sherlock, out of John's reach, into A&E, where he would be helped, where…

John let out a breath, trembling, shaking, still close to hysterical sobbing, and removed the mask once more. Greg, he needed to call Greg, to tell him…

Sherlock. Needed to see Sherlock. Check if he would be alright, if he would survive, make sure that he did not do anything stupid, anything…

With the paramedic assigned to watch out for him not looking for a moment, John got up and made one step out of the helicopter.

Only to see the ground coming closer, all of sudden, so much closer, and so quickly.

Before he realised what was happening, it all went black.

* * *

_Poor John. Not paying attention to his own body, for once._

_I intend to be quick with the next part, I promise._

_Thank you for reading._


	9. Saved

_A little bit later than intended. My apologies._

_Thank you all so much for your continued support and your wonderful feedback!_

_Enjoy._

* * *

_Dying Like That Is Stupid_

* * *

9

Saved

* * *

The first thing John became aware of was the beeping of a heart monitor, accelerating a tiny bit.

The second thing was the warmth, cosy warmth surrounding him, wrapping him into a dark and comfortable cocoon of…

Sherlock.

Had he not been assured by the constant beeping, he would have assumed his heart stopped in this very moment.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…

His eyes would not open, were not willing to, his eyelids feeling so heavy…

John groaned, almost subconsciously, and finally succeeded, only to press them shut again.

So difficult, it was so difficult…

He moaned again, suddenly becoming aware of the mask on his face. Mask, mask… Hospital.

Why was he in hospital, what was he doing here, where was Sherlock, why didn't they take care of him, what…

And then he remembered, more precisely than he had before, remembered what had happened before help had arrived, what had happened inside of the helicopter, how Sherlock's life had still been hanging by a thread by the time they had arrived at the hospital…

This time, his eyes simply had to obey.

He needed to see Sherlock, to get to him, to make sure he was…

John's very blood froze in his veins as he perceived Lestrade sitting in a chair next to him, next to his bed, his face worried, staring at him gravely. Lestrade here, with him, not with Sherlock because…

Lestrade was talking, probably, but John couldn't hear him, could only perceive the rushing of his own blood through his ears and the thumping of his heart in his chest.

"Sherl… where's Sher…," he managed to croak, muffled by the mask. His left arm was trembling madly as he tried to raise it, to get rid of the mask.

Greg bent down to him and restrained his sluggish movements. John's panic spiked.

"Greg," he carked, "where is he!"

A cautious smile appeared on Lestrade's face. "You gave us quite the scare, you know," he told John.

John twisted his arm, trying to get it free, trying to lift his right one to finally get rid of that bloody thing on his face, to get rid of that bloody IV line, to…

"Calm down, John," Greg told him. "He's alright. Well, not alright, but…"

The world was spinning around John as he roughly pushed himself into a sitting position. "Greg!" he urged, breathlessly, finally succeeding in grabbing the mask and tearing it off.

Greg looked sightly uncomfortable. "John, I'm sure you should rather leave…"

John didn't listen anymore. He needed to get to Sherlock, to know, to see, to…

"John!" Lestrade yelled at him, gripping his shoulders. "Stop it, OK? Sherlock's alright, he's alive, and stable, and breathing, and…"

For a moment, John could only stare at him. "Breathing?" he then repeated weakly, allowing Greg to push him back to the bed.

Greg rubbed his hands over his face. "Yes," he confirmed. "John, you really…"

Breathing. Alive. Stable.

Stable.

"Where is he?" John wanted to know, fumbling for the IV line with stiff fingers. Only now he noticed that his hands were wrapped into bandages, each finger separately. "Greg, tell me!"

Lestrade sighed and then frowned. "John, you really shouldn't…"

John didn't listen, of course. "Where is he," he repeated, his stiff fingers not succeeding in finding the needle.

"Still in ICU," Greg finally answered, sounding tired all of a sudden. "But he's alright, really, just…"

ICU. John stopped for a moment, too exhausted, suddenly, to feel like moving a single muscle ever again. "Then why're here with me and not with him? Why…"

Greg took a deep breath. "Because Sherlock is sleeping, and because you almost scared me to death as soon as I got to know that you had managed to collapse when you tried to get out of the helicopter."

Slowly, very slowly, John felt himself growing indeed a tiny bit calmer. Collapse… Oh. Yes. He remembered that he had attempted to follow the stretcher, and then… and then…

Exhaling carefully, he nodded. "What happened, Greg? How long… how long have I been here? And… when can I see Sherlock?"

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…

"…take it easy, John," Greg's voice reached him again. "It's in the middle of the night, you've been here for about… ten hours."

Ten hours, ten… Only now, belatedly, John realised that Greg was wearing different clothes than before, that he appeared… knackered.

"You alright?" he wanted to know, remembering that he had sent his friend off to a run through the snow, with an uncertain ending.

Greg only nodded.

"What happened?" he then asked again, for the first time becoming aware of how sore his throat was. "After I… you know."

"I found someone, some people who were looking for victims buried beneath a second avalanche, and they had helicopters and sent one to you and…," Greg took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. A shaking hand. "I wanted to come with them, but they wouldn't allow it, so I… I just had to stay behind until they took me to hospital and had me checked out, and when they were finally finished…" He swallowed dryly, not looking at John. "I didn't know if they had managed to find you or if you, and nobody wanted to tell me anything at first, but…" A short grin flickered over his face, showing his badge to John. "It comes in handy, sometimes, you know. They told me that you were fine, or going to be, and that Sherlock… that he was stable, at least. I…"

Stable. John's heart performed another painful leap. "Have you seen him," he croaked, blinking heavily to keep his eyes from falling shut.

Greg nodded. "Briefly, yes. He is fine, John, really, just… exhausted and sleeping and…"

Fine.

John's head swam as he shook it, almost frantically. "He can't be fine, Greg, he can't, he… he almost died," he whispered, pressing his eyes shut for a moment.

Warmth. Warmth all around him. Almost every part of his body was tingling and aching and pulsating uncomfortably, John realised all of a sudden.

Severe hypothermia. His brain was so sluggish, very sluggish, but it worked well enough for him to remember possible complications. Death, of course. But no, breathing, and stable… Frostbite. Amputation of limbs. Pulmonary oedema. Organ failure. Cardia arrhythmia. Kidney failure, thrombosis…

"Greg," he rasped and hissed as he pushed himself into a sitting position once more. His whole body kept protesting, kept aching, but it didn't matter to him.

Lestrade closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. "God, John," he replied. "What do you expect me to tell you? I'm not a doctor, I didn't even understand half of what that man was telling me!"

That was it, John decided and clumsily pulled back the covers. Before he even had the chance to get to his feet, Greg had pressed him down again, keeping a firm hold on his shoulders. And he was, he realised within split seconds, too weak to struggle.

"Just stay where you are," Lestrade ordered.

John simply stared at him, furiously, maybe, because Greg was keeping him from getting up, from getting to Sherlock. "What's wrong with him," he all but growled.

Finally, Greg released his shoulders and sat back in his chair.

John continued to hold his breath.

"He's stable, apparently, I think, and…"

"What about pulmonary oedema?" John interrupted him hoarsely. "Cardiac arrhythmia, pancreatitis…"

"No," Greg's answer reached his ears belatedly. "He's stable, and…"

"What about frostbite?" John cut him off once more.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Second degree, the doctor said. You, too, by the way."

Second degree, second… no deeper tissue damage, John assumed. Tried to remember. Likely to heal. Hopefully.

Lestrade was talking again.

"Any other complications?" John wanted to know, as professionally as possible. As quickly as possible. Greg's face…

This time, he hesitated.

"Greg!" John urged, about to panic.

"He's alright, really," Greg hurried to reassure him. "Needed dialysis, I think, and quite a bit of assistance in stabilising, but now…"

Quite a bit of assistance. He _needed _to talk to a doctor.

"What about rewarming?" John interjected, hazily aware of the fact that he didn't even allow Lestrade to explain anything to him.

Greg flinched and rubbed his forehead. "I think…," he began. "His body temperature was back to almost 32 degrees when I talked to a doctor, and that was a while ago. So…"

32 degrees. John didn't even want to know how low it had been initially.

Nobody was considered dead until they were warm and dead, the phrase suddenly came to his mind. Warm and dead.

Sherlock wasn't dead.

"What about brain damage?" he wanted to know.

He still remembered the moments when he hadn't felt anything, hadn't felt a pulse - and had done nothing. Hadn't been able to do anything, had been frozen. Literally. And he couldn't even tell how long it had been, if it had been too long, if…

"What?" Greg's voice startled him out of his thoughts, and once more he became aware of his spiking heart rate. "He wasn't awake, but nobody said anything about…"

"I need to talk to the doctor," John announced and attempted to sit up for the third time. This time, however, he didn't succeed - only achieved that his vision swam and blurred and his eyes closed.

"John!" Lestrade's almost panicked voice reached him. "Stop it now! You can't get up and go anywhere, and you should sleep and rest, as far as I know! So just…"

"Sherlock…," John mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Need to…"

Greg seemed to take a deep breath. "You know him," he finally croaked. "He'll be fine. Something so… mundane as the weather could never kill him."

His vision still wasn't entirely clear when John wrenched his eyes open and tried to scan Greg's face for any signs of lying. Of pretending. Of attempting to soothe him.

He found none.

Possible complications.

Still rewarming, probably.

Not awake since then. Unconscious, for a prolonged period of time.

But… but alive.

John swallowed thickly and let his eyes slide shut. "Oh God," he heard himself mumbling. "Greg…"

Greg chuckled for a second. "I know," he replied.

Despite his body, his face protesting, John managed to open his eyes again. "Can I see him?"

Greg frowned. "No," he replied. "You shouldn't get up, and you should sleep. I'm sorry."

Gritting his teeth, John attempted to nod. "Will you go…," his voice broke. "Will you go and stay with him?"

Staring at him for a moment, Greg nodded eventually. "If you will go back to sleep."

Sleep… His body was willing to, certainly.

"You wake me as… soon as something…," John whispered, feeling his eyelids flutter.

"Yeah," Greg confirmed.

"Deal," John mumbled and gave in.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_I am sorry for any kind of spelling mistakes. And thoroughly grateful for your opinion._


	10. Reassured

_Hello again!_

_Once more, a little bit later than I had planned. I am sorry._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

10

Reassured

* * *

John woke in the next morning to someone shaking his shoulder, softly.

"Breakfast," a nurse announced.

Breakfast.

Surfacing to wakefulness very slowly, John realised that the oxygen mask was still on his face, that the heart monitor was still beeping, and that the IV line was still in place. And that Greg wasn't here either.

"I need to…," he began, fumbling for the mask with clumsy fingers.

"You need to eat," the nurse told him and assisted him. "A doctor will be here to talk to you in a few minutes."

"No!" John protested, doing his best to sort his thoughts. Sherlock, complications, warming, stable, breathing… Greg, where was Greg? "I need to…," he tried once more. "Where's my friend? Grey hair, police officer?"

"Having breakfast?" she suggested, gesturing towards the tray. "Eat."

* * *

John had no choice - he was too weak to get to his feet on his own, he had discovered, and was as well still attached to the heart monitor and hindered by the IV line and an urine catheter, impossible to get rid of with his bandaged and itching fingers - but to wait and complicatedly try to eat, his stomach clenching in fear.

Finally, a man, doctor, apparently, came in, didn't allow John to interrupt him and instead told him about how lucky he had been, about his body core temperature upon admittance, about his collapse, about frostbite of second degree, about how lucky he had been…

John didn't even pay attention.

"When can I leave?" was the first thing he uttered as soon as the other man had finished.

"In a few days, you should be recovered enough to…," the doctor began, scribbling something down.

"No," John interrupted him. "I need to see someone, it's…"

"Not possible, I'm afraid. You need rest."

And with that, John was left on his own once more.

* * *

By the time Greg returned, dark bags beneath his eyes and unshaven, John was fidgetting in his bed, barely resisting the urge to scratch his fingers and toes and ears and nose, or to pull out the IV. The electrodes, thankfully, had been removed by the doctor.

"How's Sherlock?" was his first question.

"He's stable, John, I told you…"

Hearing was definitely not enough, John decided. "Greg, you need to help me. I need to see him. Get a wheelchair or something…"

"I don't think that's a good idea…," Greg began, frowning. Seconds later, he shook his head and grinned. "Oh, sod it."

* * *

John was sweating by the time they had reached the ICU ward, sweating although he did nothing else but sitting in a wheelchair, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and socks, his hands bandaged, his feet bandaged, his nose and face feeling… uncomfortably hot.

Frostbite, he remembered the doctor's words hazily, it would take a while until he could use his hands normally again, but they would be fine.

John didn't even insist on getting to his feet as soon as they had arrived outside of Sherlock's room - he didn't think his itching feet could bear the strain.

"The patient's sleeping," a nurse had told them. "Woke for a bit a while ago. Best not to disturb him."

Sleeping. Woke for a bit.

John had seen Sherlock sleep a few times - inevitable when one shares a flat -, but he had never looked so… dead while sleeping.

His pallidness had not disappeared yet, his nose and lips had not yet resumed their normal colour, his heartbeat, displayed by a monitor, was still too slow.

John exhaled, not taking his eyes from his best friend.

Suddenly, John felt a hand on his shoulder, a comforting hand. "Don't worry," Greg told him huskily.

* * *

He did worry, of course, when he indeed got the opportunity to talk to a doctor who told him that they had treated Sherlock with warmed IV fluids and humidified oxygen, with warmed peritoneal lavage, had needed dialysis because of acute renal failure, that his kidneys were improving, according to the levels of electrolytes in his urine, that it had been close for a while, that they had discovered fluids in his lungs, but had the situation under control, that his room had far more than average temperature, that he had suffered second degree frostbite which was likely to heal with minimal tissue damage.

He suddenly found he was rather relieved that he had been unconscious during that period of time, that he had not been in the position to witness all of it, or to anxiously wait for news.

And yet, as he kept staring at his best friend's prone form and the tubes around him, he couldn't help it, relief suddenly overwhelming him, relief and joy and… he simply started giggling. After a few moments, Greg hesitantly joined in.

John was completey out of breath by the time Greg insisted on taking him back to his room, not ready to leave Sherlock yet, but for once knowing that he needed sleep, and that there was nothing he could do, nothing he had to do.

No other complications, so far. A bunch of luck.

Sherlock would be OK. Probably.

Of course he would.

OK.

"Greg," John croaked, doing his best to turn around in the wheelchair. Greg, without whose actions he would not be here right now. Sherlock would not be. "Thank you."

* * *

"I think I'm going back to the hotel, if you don't mind," Greg told John as soon as he had settled back in bed, surprisingly tired and thankful for the cosy warmth. "A bit more comfortable than hospital chairs."

John nodded, stifling a yawn. "Sure," he replied.

Greg grinned awkwardly for a moment.

"Listen, Greg…," John began again, trailing off when a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh God, I need to call Mary!"

Greg's grin flickered. "Want my phone?" he asked.

John rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "No… It's early in the morning, she'll be at work…" Suddenly, he understood the full meaning of Greg's words. "Wait, your phone?"

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed. "Made sure you and Sherlock were… well, alive, then headed back to the hotel for a moment, to change my clothes, and grab my charger." He pointed towards the power socket next to the door. "Wanted to be prepared for anything that might still happen," he explained.

John could simply stare at him for a moment, not knowing what to think. Greg kept grinning, and suddenly, John felt as if at least one half of the enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders and his chest. He began to giggle once more - and could not stop.

"Alright," he managed to breathe finally, already feeling a tiny bit light-headed. "Alright…"

Greg shook his head, as if unbelieving. "God, John," he mumbled. "We made it, eh? We truly made it."

John nodded, gasping for breath.

Greg ran a hand through his hair. "That could have ended bloody differently," he added darkly.

John did no longer want to think about that, really didn't. "It's OK," he told Greg, yawning involuntarily. "Because you managed to find help…"

"With a lot of luck," Greg replied. "If I hadn't…"

Then he would not be here right now, and even if, not with Sherlock. John shuddered. "It's fine," he repeated, remembering Sherlock as he had looked a few minutes ago. Alive. Really alive.

Greg shrugged and seemed to collect himself. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Anything you need when I come back in the evening?" he wanted to know, trying to find his usual casual behaviour.

Need… "Clothes," John answered. "Anything you can find, just… something else than this… hospital gown."

"Sure," Greg replied, slowly getting up from his chair. "I'll be back then," he stated.

John nodded, sleepily by now, trying to find a comfortable position with the annoying IV in the back of his hand.

"See you, John," he heard Greg's voice from the distance.

"Mh," he murmured, still feeling this overwhelming relief, tinged with worry.

They had made it, indeed. Sherlock had.

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_A bit of a filler chapter, I know. Nonetheless, I felt like having to cover some things, so this happened._

_Feedback would, of course, still be appreciated._


	11. Reunited

Thank you once more for your support! As a result, I've become a tiny bit faster...

Enjoy.

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

11

Reunited

* * *

As soon as he was on the way to the ICU ward in the evening, after a ridiculously long and boring conversation with a rather stout nurse who had attempted to tell him to stay in bed and not walk around and disturb other people, John hurried, still feeling the fear that Sherlock's condition might have worsened within the few hours he had been asleep.

Greg had been, true to his word, here for a short while, had brought John clothes, had checked on Sherlock once more, terribly drowsy, apparently, but awake for a bit, and still without other complications so far, had managed to reassure John a tiny bit.

A tiny bit.

Because more time had passed, and so much could have happened, for better or for worse. He had had something to eat, had gulped something down, had phoned Mary and attempted to reassure her that everything was alright, had put up with the dragon of nurse and now was on his way, his toes in his slippers still itching uncomfortably.

"He's not awake," another nurse told him when he had arrived in front of the room.

John cleared his raw throat and absent-mindedly rubbed the back of his hand, rubbed the plaster which had been placed where the IV had, grudgingly, been removed by the other nurse not even an hour ago. "Can I… um… go in?" he wanted to know.

The young woman scrutinised him for a moment. "You don't look as if you should be on your feet yourself," she remarked critically.

John forced a smile to his face. Calm, he told himself. Only metres were between him and Sherlock, and he would win nothing if he started shouting now. "I know," he answered quietly, deciding it was time for honesty. "It' just… he's…"

The woman's gaze flickered towards his bandaged hands, hiding his wedding ring. Nonetheless, her face brightened. "Oh, I understand," she exclaimed. "He's your partner."

John's smile froze in his face. "Um…," he began.

"Well, go on, then," she told him, waving lazily. "Nothing too exhausting, yeah?"

John had heard her final words, yes, had registered what she was implying - no snogging, probably - but he didn't take the time to reply and instead simply hurried towards the door.

* * *

His knees were, admittedly, shaky by the time he had shoved the only chair inside the room as close to the bed as possible and had settled down on it, leaning forward, and his toes were prickling.

He was aware of the looks the nurse from outside was still directing at him, but he didn't hesitate for a single second. Very carefully, he lifted the duvet covering Sherlock a tiny bit and fumbled for his right hand. Covered in bandages, too, he realised as soon as he had found something and carefully enwrapped Sherlock's fingers with his.

Cold, they felt cold to John, despite the bandages, the covers and the IV line leading to the crook of his right elbow, providing warmed fluids, John noticed with worry.

At least his heartbeat seemed to have normalised, as John could convince himself by simply listening to the comforting beeping of the ECG, seemed to have settled around 60 beats per minute.

John exhaled carefully, taking in Sherlock's ghastly pale skin, almost the same shade as the plaster taped to his forehead, freckled with red blistering spots, and still found himself unable to stop worrying.

Kissing, John suddenly remembered the nurse's warning. How would he even be supposed to kiss Sherlock, with a breathing mask still covering his mouth and nose?

The thought wasn't appropriate, John realised seconds later, because he was most definitely not gay and married to the most wonderful woman in the world, but the mask was unsettling, somehow.

Acute renal failure, apparently, dialysis, kidneys improving, nothing else, so far.

Chest tube, probably, hidden by the covers.

Urine catheter, of course. His temperature was almost back to normal, 35.6 degrees.

Normal. Normal. Back to normal.

John had to swallow dryly as he remembered yesterday, Sherlock in the snow, he himself unable to do anything, to help his best friend, to protect him, not able to do anything but waiting, keeping his fingers pressed to Sherlock's carotid artery.

He never, absolutely never, wanted to experience something like that again.

Almost subconsciously, his fingers tightened around Sherlock's and his breathing became more strained.

Sherlock's heart rate spiked a tiny bit, and John tensed even more.

He almost fell from his chair when he heard a raspy voice.

"You're upset," Sherlock whispered, slowly turning his head towards John, the muscles in his white neck tensing.

John felt an utterly stupid smile spread on his face. "Sherlock," he croaked, his heart thumping against his ribs. "You're awake!"

Sherlock eyelids fluttered open, still purplish, revealing heavy-lidded blue eyes. "Ob… viously," he mumbled. frowning.

The grin widened even more as John squeezed Sherlock's fingers tightly. "How… how do you feel?" he asked softly. If his skin colour was anything to go by, dreadful, probably. Surely.

"'m fine," Sherlock answered, exhaling slowly. "John… what 'bout you? … alright?"

"Yes," John carked. "My best friend just told me he was fine after almost dying yesterday, so… Never been better."

Sherlock chuckled for a second before his eyes slid shut and he seemed to be concentrating on breathing for a moment. "The…," he muttered. "The… mask…"

"No," John told him. "I'm not removing it."

"John…," Sherlock whispered, his frown deepening, his fingers twitching in John's grip. "Jus'… for a… bit…"

Recalling the nurse's words, John gave in. No use in upsetting Sherlock now, and judging by the way he looked and talked, he would succumb to sleep within a few minutes anyway - the perfect opportunity to put it back.

"Better?" he asked quietly as Sherlock sucked in a greedy breath and John rested the mask against his neck.

"Mh," Sherlock made, wrenching his eyes open. "Heard you… took a tumble out… of the helicopter," he whispered, a weak smile tugging at his pale lips.

Blood rushed to John's cheeks before he remembered why _exactly _he had been so eager to get out of the bloody thing. "I was frightened to death because of you!" he protested, barely remembering in time to keep his voice down.

Sherlock managed to look embarrassed for a moment. "'m fine," he insisted after an awkward pause. "Or… close to," he corrected hoarsely after catching John's glance.

"Apart from the itching, the chest pain, the grogginess?" he retorted, recalling the pleural effusion.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered. "Fine."

John grimaced. "Didn't look like it back then," he muttered darkly, shuddering. Still didn't, somehow. "How the hell do you even know that about me?"

"Nurse… told me," his best friend answered, licking his dry lips. "You were here, earlier, with Lestrade…"

John nodded, his features set. "Yes," he croaked. "Needed to look after you, didn't I? So you… you were awake before?"

Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes. "Yes," he breathed. "Briefly, and it was… hazy, and cold, and… they told me it was close, and that you were fine, and…" He trailed off.

John squeezed his hand, comfortingly. "Yes," he managed, remembering the journey to the hospital, the agonising minutes in the helicopter. "Yes, it was." He had not been there when Sherlock had first woken, confused and scared, probably, not knowing where he was and why he was here and… Subconsciously, he held his breath.

"'s okay, John," Sherlock whispered, attempting another smile.

Relucantly, trying to compose himself, John nodded. "Yes," he made. "Yes."

A moment of silence spread, a moment when John was grateful to simply listen to the now again constant beeping, to his best friend's soft breathing.

Then Sherlock shifted a tiny bit. "What… happened?"

John clenched his jaw. "What do you remember?" he wanted to know.

"Cold…," Sherlock replied slowly. "Snow, cold… you, telling me to stay awake, to hold on…"

John locked his eyes with Sherlock's as he explained: "Well, you didn't. Stay awake, I mean. You lost consciousness, and I… Greg found help, and they got to us in time and saved your life. That was… yesterday evening, I think. You've been here since then."

"Mh," Sherlock made after a few moments, frowning once again. "You should've… left," he mumbled.

John stiffened immediately. Typical, that Sherlock was remembering that of all things. "No, I bloody shouldn't have," he replied, his voice tight.

Sherlock stared at him, an echo of his usual gaze. "You could have died," he stated.

John felt tempted to shake some sense into Sherlock. "You _would _have died," he forced out, "if I had left."

Sherlock simply blinked at him. "I…," he began, trailing off.

John pressed his eyes shut and curtly shook his head. "Don't," he said. "Not now. You should sleep."

Sherlock curved his lips into a smile, but obediently closed his eyes. "We'd better not… tell Mrs Hudson," he whispered, allowing his head to loll to the side.

Minutes later, John was sure his best friend was asleep. Carefully, he untangled their hands and replaced the oxygen mask on Sherlock's pallid face.

No, they'd better not tell Mrs Hudson indeed. Feeling another burst of warmth bloom inside of his chest, John returned to gripping Sherlock's right hand tenderly.

He would have to talk to the doctor once more, to make sure that there would not be any other complications, that Sherlock would be alright, in the end, to make sure that he would be resting and recovering and not over-exerting himself, but it would be… fine.

John smiled as he sensed Sherlock's fingers curling slightly around his own, even in his sleep.

* * *

_Back together, finally._

_One more part to come._

_Thank you for reading, and, as you might know, I always appreciate feedback._


	12. Epilogue

_Thank you for all your feedback once more._

_Here it is, the final part, the epilogue._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Dying Like That Is Stupid**

* * *

12

Epilogue

* * *

Greg had taken care of all the formalities, thankfully - explaining why there was a dead man on that hill, how they had ended up there, who they were, who the dead man was.

He had also done most of the talking, to doctors and nurses, chatting rather merrily, while John had spent most of his time next to Sherlock, trying to convince his still worrying mind of the fact that Sherlock was alive and going to be fine.

And he had also informed John about what one of the mountain rescuers had told him: how lucky they had been to able to shovel away the snow with their bare hands, how lucky they had been that the avalanche had already been flattening out when it had hit Sherlock - or otherwise they wouldn't have stood a chance against both snow and time. The thought alone had made John shudder once more.

John had of course called Mary, telling her something about 'unexpected difficulties' and 'delays' at first, and ending up telling her the truth because, of course, she had seen through his lies.

"I'll fly to Scotland myself if I find out you're still lying," she had threatened, but finally, John had been able to calm her, assuring her that he was fine, and that Sherlock was fine, too.

* * *

John was utterly relieved when, two days later, nurses had wheeled another bed into his hospital room, Sherlock's bed, who had finally been released from ICU, stable, indeed, suffering from a touch of pneumonia and being treated for it already.

John's initial relief had been replaced by worry at first because Sherlock didn't seem to do much else but sleeping and coughing occasionally, almost buried beneath the duvet and an additional blanket, and now, five days later, with mild annoyance because as soon as he was awake, the antibiotics having kicked in, his vitals quite impressive for what he had gone through, Sherlock started complaining, about boredom, about being cold, about John's snivelling (because John had, in fact, caught a cold and a urinary tract infection from sitting in the snow for so long), about the food he was forced to eat, about the IV line that was still in place, about his bandaged fingers that prevented him from typing away on his laptop Greg had brought, very considerately.

_Mild _annoyance because all his complaining was far better than his unsettling drowsiness of the first few days, than his... apathy and apparent weakness.

Oh, and John still couldn't help but chuckle when he remembered the moment Sherlock had, awake for more than five minutes and in a rather clever mood, finally found out about the urine catheter and about how his urine outputs were still measured carefully. The shouting match that had eveloped - Sherlock, very hoarsely, against the stout nurse John had got to know earlier on - hadn't done anything to calm John down, in fact, only made him giggle harder. In the end, Sherlock had, exhaustedly, explained that he could not tolerate such measures because he was _fine_, and in return the nurse had told him that the catheter was to be removed as soon as she was convinced he was fine, and that she could very well have him sedated or moved to a single room.

Sherlock had shut up after that, surprisingly enough, had at first seemed to be sulking - and had nodded off only minutes later.

"I don't see why we still have to stay here," Sherlock told John now, still hoarsely, after the urine catheter had in fact been removed and after another nurse, young and shy and friendly, had brought them lunch.

John grinned in between taking two bites and continued chewing rather comfortably. Sherlock only picked at his meal.

"I don't have to," John answered finally after he had swallowed and loaded his fork once more. In fact, he had been offered the possibility of discharge yesterday - and had found himself, almost to his own surpirse, declining. There was no way he and Greg would travel back to London - after their murderer had, well, been eliminated - without Sherlock, and since Sherlock was not to be discharged yet and John would never let him leave hospital against medical advice, not this time, he had figured that he could as well stay here, sharing a double room with Sherlock and attempting to lessen his boredom instead of spending the days at the hospital anyway and the nights alone in a hotel room, wondering if Sherlock was alright. "It's _you _they want to keep for a bit longer," he added, ready to shovel more food into his mouth.

Sherlock only huffed, almost petulantly.

"Eat your noodles," John reminded him, chewing once more, "or you'll never get out of here."

* * *

"I'm actually looking forward to London again," Lestrade told them rather moodily one evening, in the cafeteria, about to leave. "This constant cold and the snow..." He sniffed. "I'm not made for that, I think."

London. Back to London. John sighed, taking another sip from his coffee. Tomorrow, in fact, tomorrow would be the day. "Yeah," he replied, sneezing violently. "That is if Mary doesn't kill me."

"How could she," Sherlock muttered, pulling the hospital dressing gown - his own was at home, at 221B - closer around his body. "I assume she will rather take to sobbing and snogging and..."

"Sherlock!" Greg interrupted him. "And you still haven't told Mrs Hudson anything?" he then wanted to know.

John shook his head, rubbing his itching left palm. Frostbite, he had found out, was rather unpleasant to heal. And it took time, quite a lot of time. "Probably'd give her a heart attack," he replied.

"She'd move upstairs just to keep an eye on me," Sherlock interjected, yawning.

"Doesn't sound like a bad idea," John answered with a weak grin.

Greg giggled while Sherlock simply shot him a condescending look. "Really, John," he mumbled, concentrating on his own cup of coffee.

"I've left your clothes in your room," Greg informed them.

"Yeah, thanks, Greg." John smiled. He didn't even remember how often he had thanked Greg in the past few days, for so many things - for being fast enough, for taking care of everything, for not returning to London immediately, for providing them with new mobiles and clothes and even their laptops, for organising everything, including the flight back.

John noticed how Lestrade already opened his mouth to say something before another voice cut him off: "Thank you, Le... Greg," Sherlock added. "For... everything."

It was almost comical for John to watch Greg, a grown man, a police officer, almost blush at these words. Whereas Sherlock did thank John occasionally, it still proved to be a rare occurrence with somebody else. And this time, it was sincere, very much so, John could tell. As could Greg, apparently.

"Er...," he began.

"Oh, please," Sherlock interrupted, his lips slowly quivering into a smile, almost insecure. "Although I do know that your intellect is, compared to mine, inferior, of course, there is no need to further prove this fact..."

"Sherlock."

His best friend didn't even turn to face John, rather raised one eyebrow.

"Stop it," John explained. "You were saying 'thank you' a minute ago, don't ruin it."

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and Greg's face coloured even more.

"I'll... I'd better go," he finally said, getting to his feet. "See you tomorrow."

"See you," John replied whereas Sherlock remained silent once more.

John took another sip of his coffee. He never drank coffee in the evenings, but since... it, he rather preferred anything that was hot and steamy instead of cool juice. "That was... appropriate," he said calmly. "We owe him our lives, after all."

A brief smile flickered over Sherlock's face. "I know," he replied, unusually humble for a moment.

Studying his friend for a moment, taking in his pale complexion, he realised that this was Sherlock's way of appreciating what Lestrade had done. Calmly, composedly, not bothering with unnecessary words - but absolutely meaning what he was saying. Slowly, he felt his lips quirk into a crooked smile. Yes, he definitely knew why Sherlock was his best friend.

Unusually humble for a _short _moment. "Although, when you think about it more closely," he interrupted John's train of thought, "hypothermia is a condition rather simple to reverse, and victims of hypothermia are not considered dead until…"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John cut him off, harshly, narrowing his eyes and seriously contemplating the urge to nudge Sherlock in the ribs. He didn't, in the end, well aware that his entire chest was probably still sore and hurting due to CPR. "I'm a doctor, remember?" he added. "And believe me, I really don't need any more experiences with hypothermia. Really not. And it really didn't have to be any closer."

For a few heartbeats, none of them said anything.

"John," Sherlock eventually addressed him quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

"Yeah," John croaked, trying to shove the images of Sherlock in the snow, on the stretcher that had suddenly appeared in his mind again away. "I know."

Because he did. Because he could see that the prospect of them dying there, in the cold, in the snow, had frightened Sherlock, unsettled him. Not to mention John's own horror.

"Maybe we should let Lestrade pay the bill for the hotel," Sherlock remarked only seconds later, purposefully flippant. "After all, he was the one who lived there most of the time."

John almost spit out the rest of his coffee. "That would be terribly unfair," he choked, licking his burned lips. "But then... can't we talk Mycroft into paying for it?"

"Probably," Sherlock mumbled and yawned.

John joined in, not able to resist the urge to, and sneezed promptly afterwards. "Bed?" he suggested.

Sherlock sighed theatrically and huddled even more neatly into his borrowed dressing gown. "Bed," he agreed.

* * *

It took John a while until he was able to find sleep in this night. He didn't even try to, maybe, just was lying in his bed, propped up on one elbow, listening to Sherlock's quiet breathing and his occasional coughing, watching him sleep, curled up on his side, once more buried beneath the blanket, without any doubt still utterly cold.

How lucky they had been. How very, very lucky.

The nightmares he woke to in the nights always showed him Sherlock, his chest being frozen due to the cold, truly frozen, a condition which made all attempts of resuscitation useless, or Sherlock, with limbs being amputated or organs failing, terminally. Nightmares, only. Just dreams.

How very, very lucky.

John let out a breath and rested his head back on the pillow. Back to London, tomorrow, with Sherlock being discharged (still a bit early, in John's opinion, but then, he assumed, London and Mrs Hudson's motherly care would only do wonders for Sherlock's health).

Back to London. Out of the cold. For real, this time.

Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to forget the images of Sherlock in the snow, of Sherlock inside of the helicopter now. Maybe.

His last thought before he finally fell asleep was that he would have to thank Sherlock, too.

For holding on.

For not dying.

Because dying like that would have been stupid.

* * *

The End

* * *

_Thank you for reading._

_That's it, then. Back on their way to London - and to Mrs Hudson and Mary._

_I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I did - while writing it - and you'll be able nonetheless to enjoy snow and winter!_


End file.
